Ginny's last resort
by Bagge
Summary: Alone against the Death Eaters, with her friends defeated, there is one last resort remaining for Ginny. A power that has never totally abandoned her, should she be desperate enough to evoke it...


**Ginny's last resort**

_Alone against the Death Eaters, with her friends defeated, there is one last resort remaining for Ginny. A power that has never totally abandoned her, should she be desperate enough to evoke it..._

_This is a dark, evil fic with a lot of war and death. Be warned. Also, in the name of honesty this is the second time I write this story. Last time was in the Xena fandom and about a totally different girl. That fic is named "The strength within". Characters belong to Rowling._

The fight was going well. The trap he so cleverly had designed had fulfilled its purpose, just as expected. Most of the aurors had been fooled by his diversion, and were now elsewhere. Potter and his companions on the other hand had swallowed his lure, and were now enduring a bitter fight against his Death Eaters. They were brave, he had to hand them that, but the odds were against them. This time there was no escape.

The Dark Lord quickly performed a shield charm to fend off a hex aimed at him from his antagonist, and then sent a stunner in return. Potter managed to dodge it, but then he had to defend himself against a curse from Wormtail. Voldemort frowned in dislike. He had clearly instructed the Death Eaters that Potter was his and his alone, but trust Wormtail to go for the extra glory. The little rat would hear about this, for sure.

He allowed himself a brief overview of the battle scene. Longbottom was down, and as far as he had been able to see, it was Bellatrix who had got him. That should please her. Granger and Weasley fought back to back, wildly hexing and shielding, and so far managing to hold their own. Voldemort might have to intervene there himself. Lovegood seemed to be yet unharmed, something of a miracle given that she hardly was defending herself at all. Most of her effort seemed to be aimed at shielding her friends. Then there was Potter and the Weasley girl, fighting like furies in the middle of the battle, cursing, hexing and shielding. Several of his Death Eaters were hit, and the others seemed quite reluctant to expose themselves in battle against the Boy who Lived. The Dark Lord made a mental note to remind them who they should fear more then any one else. Remind them in a way they were sure not to forget.

But first there was this battle to win. Mentally uttering the incantation for the petrifying curse, the Dark Lord managed to hit the mudblood who had caused him so much trouble. Unmoving she fell to the ground. The blood traitor boy turned around to stare at her, for a moment letting his guard down, and thus he was an easy target. Voldemort smirked, but then Potter fell upon him, all devils of Hell in his eyes.

Curses were fired and deflected much faster than would have been possible if they actually had uttered them verbally. Potter defiantly stared at him, his green eyes radiating utter hatred, his scar seemingly radiating of raw, cackling power. The Dark Lord slowly walked backwards under the onslaught. He could feel the boy gain the upper hand, and fear grasped his heart as he to a larger and larger extent resorted to defend himself. But the Death Eaters fought ruthlessly, forcing the two remaining girls to defend Potter's back. Lovegood fell, a surprised look in her eyes, and for a moment Potter's concentration faltered. Voldemort struck. The whole might of the killing curse hit Potter, and he had to use all his strength to maintain his shield, giving the Dark Lord time to utter another curse and press him backwards.

The last of Potter's friends, the blood traitor girl was hit and fell. She still seemed to be conscious, but there was no more help for Potter now. Blood trickled from the girl's mouth as she followed the fight with panic in her eyes. Panic, and a despair Voldemort should perhaps had paid more attention to, but now he felt victory within his grasp. He smirked as he saw the despair in his enemy's eyes. _Your friends are gone Potter. You are next, and you know it..._ Potter made a desperate lash, hitting Wormtail with a hex, managing to deflect one of Goyle's curses, and throwing himself to the ground, aiming for cover. But doing so he for a single, faithful moment exposed himself to Voldemort. The Boy who Lived fell.

The Weasley girl cried out, a primal animal shriek of despair, staring at her fallen hero with tears streaming. Her eyes were empty, her breath came in painful gasps. She hardly seemed to be aware of the Death Eaters surrounding her, her wand held loosely in her hand. Voldemort felt joy in his heart. Relief. Finally, after all this time. He had won against the boy he had feared and hated for so long. He started to laugh.

The girl cried. She had managed to move to Potter's side, touching his chin, which Voldemort knew would be cold by now. He had to admit it was a scene with a certain beauty in it, the crying read-headed girl, so much symbolizing life, kneeling by the pale, cold boy who could stand for nothing but death. He appreciated the beauty, but he was no stranger to destroy beautiful things. Still laughing he aimed his wand at her and mentally uttered the death curse. But the curse never hit its aim. It was shielded, deflected faster then the Dark Lord had thought possible.

She was on her feet, a wild look in her face. The Death Eaters struck, at least five curses were aimed at her, but she deflected them.

"NO!" she yelled, burning hatred in her eyes, wand held as a sword in her hand. And she leached out. A curse hit Bellatrix and sent her flying at least five meters in the air. The Death Eaters took a few steps backwards, trying to get away from the furious girl. Voldemort himself shot another hex at her, but she shielded it, seemingly not even thinking about it.

She was a teenaged girl, alone and hurt, surrounded by enemies, but there was something with her, a new quality that made the Death Eaters tremble. She started to move. Leaping as a panther she struck at the closest group of Death Eaters, curses and hexes erupting from her as hails from a winter storm cloud, her enemies falling as straws for the scythe. They fought back, as well as they could, but they could as well have matched their powers against the turning tide. She cursed, jinxed, hexed, and there was no mercy in her. Before anyone really had understood what had happened, almost half of their numbers were down, and the girl had turned around to face the rest. She yelled her curses with hoarse voice, and to his utter horror Voldemort suddenly realized that the language of her curses was the guttural hissing of parseltongue. What treachery was this?

_"Stupefy!"_ she cried. _"Petrificus Totalus! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! AVADA KEDAVRA!"_. And they fell.

They tried to hit her, the bravest or those who most badly wanted to prove themselves in they eyes of their lord. The others tried to defend themselves or to flee, but to no avail. Not fully twenty seconds after the girl first had stood up from the side of the fallen boy, Lord Voldemort was left alone, all his servants gone. He had interrupted his attempts to attack her, all his energy now devoted to defend himself. And his brain was racing. Parseltongue? Had they fooled him? Was this really Potter in poly-juice disguise? Was this the real battle? His Death Eaters were gone. That unfathomable fact kept screaming at him. Surely, this could not happen?

She did not rush him, she only calmly walked towards him, and the all too familiar sensation of fear - cold, blind fear - gripped his heart. What was it other then unconditional, unreasonable terror of Death that had driven him to fight it with such limitless effort, to do anything, no matter the cost, to avoid it? And now he saw death approach him, and he did not understand it.

"Leave me alone," he cried, a futile plead. There was a wall against his back, preventing him from fleeing further. He was stuck. In the girl approaching him there was nothing of the despair she had shown just a few minutes back. She was calm, cold and controlled. She was carefully taking her aim, not rushing, not giving him any openings. There was something intensely creepy over her, something unnatural, unhuman. The Dark Lord stared at her, the one thought repeating itself in his brain over and over again was that he was going to die. He was going to die and this time there was nothing he could do about it. He stared at the young girl and he met her eyes. He shuddered.

What had a moment before been eyes empty save for tears were now filled to the brim with fire and death. There was hatred hot as boiling iron, fury cold as the darkness of the night sky before the first stars illuminated it. There was strength beyond measure and belief and there was a determination unavoidable as death itself. The Dark Lord had seen determination like that only once before, in the eyes of another red-headed girl. That determination had been guided by love, and had cost him as much of his life as could possibly have been taken by that time. The determination he saw in this girl's eyes was guided by hatred, and would come to cost him even more.

But there was something more. Beneath the hatred, beneath the determination. There was something dark, something old, something beyond both emotions and intentions. And suddenly it dawned on him. For a moment Voldemort felt something much like relief. Well, it was not surprising that his Death Eaters had not been able to defend themselves. It cold hardly have been expected against _this_ opponent. There was no one that could match the strength he saw in her eyes, he knew that better then anyone. No, he corrected himself. Not her eyes. His eyes. Eyes that could never be masked, never imitated and that he would never mistake. Because they were his own. He hesitated, and his wand was knocked out of his hand and summoned by his opponent.

_"This is when you die,"_ said the being who talked through Ginny's mouth. The words were in parseltongue.

_"But you are me,"_ Voldemort answered in the same fashion, bewildered, desperate.

_"No,"_ said Tom Riddle. _"You were me. I am your past, as well as your future, but I have never been you. You were never meant to be. You are a mistake, an abomination, which I now attempt to correct."_

And what appeared to be a teenage girl, but in reality was something totally different, pointed both wands straight at the heart of Lord Voldemort.

_"Avada Kedavra."_


End file.
